The Shepherd's Crown

by Terry Pratchett

  Waving a goodbye to the dwarfs and Mrs Proust, Tiffany and Geoffrey took off together and floated back towards Lancre and the distant mountains, Geoffrey getting the feel of his stick immediately and disappearing into the sky ahead of Tiffany.

  She caught him up just outside the outskirts of Ankh-Morpork – he was soaring and swooping at a ferocious speed. ‘You do know your trousers are smouldering, don’t you?’ she said with a laugh.

  Geoffrey patted the smoke away with a sudden anxiety that made the stick wobble, saying, ‘Please don’t tell Nanny about this when we get back! She’ll laugh at me!’

  But after they had travelled back to Lancre – quite a bit faster than on the outward journey – and before she set off back to the Chalk, Tiffany did of course tell Nanny Ogg. And the older witch did indeed laugh.

  ‘It was amazing, though,’ Tiffany said. ‘Flying seemed so natural to him.’

  ‘Ha!’ said Nanny. ‘Every man has a broomstick in the house, but they just don’t often know how to use ’em!’

  fn1 The Feegles had, in fact, accidentally set fire to Tiffany’s broomstick, creating a need for new bristles.

  fn2 There are some advantages to wearing layers needing double figures to count. Dwarfs like lots of layers of chainmail, jackets and – of course – the traditional woolly vest which actually makes the chainmail unnecessary.

  fn3 ‘River’ as a term doesn’t quite describe the sludge of the river Ankh in its course through the city, though it is of course a decent torrent up in Lancre.

  fn4 Uberwald servants, usually working as doctors, or assistants to mad scientists, who believe a stitch in time saves a lot of bother later. They like to swap body parts from an early age, often within the same family, such that an Igor saying ‘He’s got his uncle’s nose’ really means something.

  fn5 So a new stick, really. As new as the famous nine-hundred-year-old family mining axe owned by the King of the Dwarfs was anyway.

  CHAPTER 12

  An Elf among the Feegles

  THERE WAS THUNDER and there was lightning. It was raining and there was water everywhere, running down the chalk hills.

  The Queen screamed as she was thrown out of Fairyland, her wings torn from her body, her blood staining her shoulders. A scream with a life of its own, which ended in a dew pond on the Chalk, surprising a stoat on the prowl.

  And Tiffany Aching woke up.

  Her heart was thumping, a sudden chill making her shiver in the dark of the night. She looked over at the window. What had made her wake? Where was she needed?

  She sat up and reached wearily for her clothes . . .

  Up on the downs, the Feegle mound was still its usual hive of activity and song, a Feegle mound being very like a beehive but without the honey, and to be sure a Feegle could sting much worse than a bee. But when something was being celebrated – and they didn’t need much to pick a reason for a celebration – the Nac Mac Feegles always made sure that it went on happily for a long time.

  A short time past midnight, however, the revels that night were interrupted by Big Yan, the Feegle nightwatchman, as he ran in from the storm raging outside.fn1

  He kicked the helmet of his chief, the Big Man of the clan, and shouted, ‘There’s elves here! I can smell it, ye ken!’

  And from every hole in turn, the clan of the Nac Mac Feegle poured out in their hundreds to deal with the ancient enemy, waving claymores and swords, yodelling their war cries:

  ‘Ach, stickit yer trakkans!’

  ‘Nac Mac Feegle wha hae!’

  ‘Gae awa’ wi’ ye, yer bogle!’

  ‘Gi’e you sich a guid kickin’!’

  ‘Nae king! Nae quin! We willnae be fooled agin!’

  There is a concept known as a hustle and bustle, and the Feegles were very good at it, cheerfully getting in one another’s way in the drive to be the first into battle, and it seemed as if each small warrior had a battle cry of his own – and he was very ready to fight anyone who tried to take it away from him.

  ‘How many elves?’ asked Rob Anybody, trying to adjust his spog.

  There was a pause.

  ‘One,’ said Big Yan sheepishly.

  ‘Are ye sure?’ said Rob Anybody, as his sons and brothers flowed around him and hurried past to the mouth of the mound. Ach, the embarrassment. The whole Feegle colony bristling with weaponry, full of alcohol and bravado and apparently nothing to do with it. Of course, they were always itching for a fight but most Feegles itched all the time, especially in the spog.

  They rushed about on the sodden hilltop looking for the enemy, while Big Yan led Rob to the dew pond on the top of the hill. The storm had passed and the water gleamed under the stars. There, half in, half out of the pond, the battered body of an elf lay groaning.

  And indeed it was, apparently, a solitary elf. You could almost hear the Feegles thinking: One elf? Feegles loved a spat with the elves, but . . . just one? How did that happen?

  ‘Ach crivens, it’s a long time since we had a reely good fight.’ Rob sighed, and for a moment he was, for a Feegle, quite sombre.

  ‘Aye, but where there’s the one, there’s sure to be a plague o’ them,’ Big Yan muttered.

  Rob sniffed at the air. The elf just lay there and it was doing nothing. ‘There are nae ither elves aboot. We’d smell them if they were,’ he pronounced. He reached a decision. ‘Big Yan, ye and Wee Dangerous Spike, grab a-hold of that scunner. Ye know what to dae if it gets feisty. Awf’ly Wee Billy Bigchin’ – he looked for the clan gonnagle, who was the least likely to mangle the facts – ‘hie ye awa’ tae the kelda and tell her what’s abroad. What we are bringin’ back to the mound.’ Then he shouted so that the rest of the clan could hear him, ‘This elf is oor prisoner. A hostage, ye ken. That means ye are nae tae kill it until ye are told.’ He ignored the grumbles from the clan. ‘As tae the rest o’ ye, tak guard around yon stones. And if they come in force show them what the Feegles can dae!’

  Daft Wullie said, ‘I can play the harmonica.’

  Rob Anybody sighed, ‘Aye, weel, I suppose that puts the willies up me, so wud likely keep them awa’.’

  Back at the mound – outside, mind, for no elf would find itself a place for long inside a Nac Mac Feegle mound – the kelda looked at the stricken elf and then back at Rob Anybody.

  ‘Just one?’ she asked. ‘Weel, one elf alone is nae challenge tae a young Feegle even. And this elf has been beaten, aye, its wings torn from its back. Did oor boys dae that?’

  ‘No’ us, Jeannie,’ said Rob. ‘Big Yan said it drappit oot o’ the sky intae the auld dew pond up by the stones, ye ken. It were battered like that afore it got there.’ He looked anxiously at his wife, who had a frown on her face. ‘We be warriors, no’ butchers, Jeannie. The lads are raring tae gae, o’ course, and if yon elf was facin’ me in a fight, my claymore would ring aloud, but whin it looks like a wee slunkit mowpie there’s nae honour in killin’ it.’

  ‘Brawly spoken, Rob,’ said the kelda as she considered the unconscious creature. ‘But why just one? Are ye sure?’

  There was a groan from the elf and it stirred. Rob’s claymore leaped into his hand but the kelda gently held him back. The bedraggled elf groaned again and whispered something, its voice weak and faltering. The kelda pricked up her ears and listened carefully before turning to her husband with some surprise.

  ‘It said, “Thunder and Lightning”!’ she said.

  The elf whispered again and this time Rob could hear the words too: ‘Thunder and Lightning.’

  Everyone on the Chalk knew about Granny Aching’s famous dogs, Thunder and Lightning, long gone but, as all the local farmers believed, still roaming the hills in spirit. Several years before, young Tiffany Aching had summoned them to help rid the Chalk of the Queen of Fairyland. Now here was an elf, at the very entrance to a Feegle mound, invoking their names.

  ‘There’s somethin’ I dinnae like aboot this,’ said the kelda. ‘But I cannae decide what it means withoot oor hag. Can ye send for her, R
ob?’

  ‘Aye, Hamish can gae. I mun get back to the stones and the clan.’ He looked at his wife anxiously. ‘Will ye be all richt here wi’ that scunner?’

  ‘Aye, I’ll take it inside, ye ken, to dry by the fire. It’s too weak tae dae anything tae me. And the boys kin look after me.’ Jeannie nodded over at a happy bundle of young Feegles, who were tumbling out of the mound, waving their crescent-shaped clubs in the air.

  ‘Aye, it will be good practice for them,’ Rob said, looking at them proudly. And then ducked as one of the Feegles let loose his club and it shot through the air and nearly smacked him on the ear.

  To his amazement, the weapon swung round in the air and shot back to the young Feegle who had hurled it, giving him a bang on the head, saving Rob the trouble.

  ‘Ach, boys,’ Rob shouted. ‘It fights ye back! Now that’s a weapon fit for any Feegle. Double the fun, ye ken.’

  Tiffany had just begun to dress when there was a whistling sound outside, followed by the thump of something falling past, merrily breaking branches, and then a tapping on the window.

  She opened the window and she could see a tangle of cotton and cloth down below, which after a good kickin’ fell away to reveal Hamish, the Feegle aviator.fn2

  With the window open, it was suddenly very cold in the bedroom, and Tiffany sighed and said, ‘Yes, Hamish, now tell me what you need me for.’

  Hamish, adjusting his goggles, jumped up onto the sill and into the room. ‘Oor kelda hae sent for ye, hag o’ the hills. I mun get ye tae the mound as soon as ye can.’

  It had been a long day, but Tiffany knew that if the kelda wanted her, even after midnight, then that was where she needed to be. So she put on her heavy-duty travelling pants, left a saucer of milk on the hearth and cranked up the broomstick.

  And once again You was staring at her, the white cat who seemed now to be everywhere.

  The fire inside the mound was like a furnace.

  The young Feegles who had been left to guard their kelda were all scowling at the hated adversary. When Rob Anybody returned, each Feegle wanted to look like he had been the one to keep the scunner from causing any trouble. Especially now she was inside the mound.

  But the elf appeared to have been crying.

  The kelda shifted her bulk and said softly, ‘So now, elf, you come to me. For what purpose? Why do we nae kill ye right noo?’

  This caused a susurration of expectation among the Feegles, each of whom was hoping to kill an elf before too long, and trepidation on the part of the elf.

  The kelda turned away, then said softly, ‘I ha’ the secrets of the hiddlins, and what I see is that everything we do today was ordained afore the seas were made. There is nae turning back. But there is a mist in what is afore me. I cannae see for sure beyond this day, ye ken.’

  There was a shiver from the elf.

  ‘Haed yer tongue richt noo, elf,’ Jeannie mused. ‘For I wonder what my position were tae be if things were otherwise. Yoor people are sae . . . inventive.’

  That caused the young Feegles to brandish their weapons playfully, and the kelda turned back to the elf and went on, ‘Ye are sent tae me by the calling of Thunder and Lightning. I ken those twa spirit dogs, aye, and also their owner, will be with us soon enough. Right now, shivering elf, tell me what is the geas you are under? Why are ye here? Who are ye? What is your name? And dinnae lie tae me, elf. Because I ha’ a way of kenning.’ The kelda looked at the elf – tiny, shrivelled, rags and drying blood – something that could have been kicked about for days before being left to end its life in a dew pond.

  ‘I can’t ask for anything, Kelda. I am empty to your pleasure or your wrath.’ The Queen’s voice was very small. ‘But I was – until just now – the Queen of the Elves.’

  The young Feegles stopped rattling their weapons and began to crowd nearer. Could this wee little mowpie be the fearsome Quin they had heard about from the Big Man? Wee Duggie Bignose leaned over and bravely poked the elf with his finger, the effect slightly spoiled by his rabbit-skull helmet falling over his eyes and making him reel forwards as it stuck on his nose.

  ‘Get awa’ wi’ ye, lads,’ the kelda said sharply, rapping Duggie’s helmet with her fist and spinning him away from the elf. She turned back to the Queen. Drily she said, ‘Then it appears ye ha’ had a misfortune, your majesty. And I’ve a mind to mention that there appear to be many queens of the elves. I ask myself, which one do we have here? What I want is your name, madam. Be careful: if ye should gi’ me a name which is nae yours, your majesty will find me somewhat acerbic.’

  The elf said, ‘My name, Kelda, is Nightshade.’

  The kelda sent a sideways look to Rob Anybody that said, What have we here? The real Quin? For she knew that although there were many leaders among the elves of Fairyland, there had always been only the one King and Queen. The King, of course, had gone away some years ago, creating a separate world just for himself and his pleasures, leaving the Queen behind. And although it was rarely used, the Queen did have a name of her own. A name known to the Feegles from their time in Fairyland. A name now to be passed from each kelda to her successor. The name of Nightshade.

  Quietly she said, ‘We are the Nac Mac Feegle, and we dinnae bow down to queens.’

  Rob Anybody was silent, but the sound of him whetting his claymore against the stone was a song, an invitation to death. Then he looked up and his gaze was fearsome. ‘We are the Nac Mac Feegle! The Wee Free Men! Nae king! Nae quin! Nae laird! Nae master! We willna’ be fooled again!’ he thundered. ‘Your life, elf, is on the edge o’ my blade.’

  There was a scuffling noise behind them and Tiffany crawled in, followed by Hamish, with more Feegles pushing around after them.

  ‘It’s happy I am tae see ye, hag o’ the hills,’ Jeannie said. ‘We have ourselves . . . an elf. Tell us, what shall we dae with it?’ And at that word ‘elf’ every weapon sang.

  Tiffany looked at the elf. It was in terrible shape and she said, ‘We aren’t the kind of people who kill those who are unarmed.’

  Rob Anybody put up his hand. ‘Excuse me, mistress, but some of us do, or are.’

  Nonplussed, Tiffany thought, Well, I’m their big wee hag, and the kelda has asked for my help. And then, despite its bedraggled state, she recognized the Feegles’ captive. After all, how could she have forgotten?

  ‘I know you, elf, and I told you never to come here again,’ she said. She frowned. ‘You remember? You were a great elvish queen and I was a little girl. I drove you away with Thunder and Lightning.’

  She watched the elf’s face when she said that. It had gone white.

  ‘Yes,’ said the elf faintly. ‘We came raiding into your world, but this was before the time of . . . iron.’

  Her face twisted with fear and Tiffany sensed a change in the world, a feeling that she stood between two courses of action, and what she did next would matter. This, she realized, was what she had suspected was coming her way, what Jeannie had warned her about. A witch is always on the edge, between the light and the dark, good and bad, making choices every day, judging all the time. It was what made her human. But what was it that made an elf? she wondered.

  ‘I hear that the goblins believe that the railway engines have a soul, elf,’ she said softly. ‘Tell me, what kind of soul have you? Do you run along your own elvish rails? With no time or place for turning?’ She looked at the kelda and said, ‘Granny Aching told me to feed them that was starving and clothe them as is naked and help the pitiful. Well, this elf has come to my turf – starving, naked, pitiful – do you see?’

  The kelda’s eyebrows rose. ‘Yon creature is an elf! It has nae care for ye! It has nae care for anyone – it disnae even care for other elves!’

  ‘You think then there is no such animal as a good elf?’

  ‘Ye think there is such a thing as a guid elf?’

  ‘No, but I am suggesting that there is a possibility that there might be one.’ Tiffany turned to the cowering elf. ‘You are no queen
now. Do you have a name?’

  ‘Nightshade, my lady.’

  ‘Aye,’ said the kelda. ‘A poison.’

  ‘A word,’ said Tiffany sharply.

  ‘Well, yon word has been kicked out as if life was nae more than a game o’ chess; and now it turns to the lassie she tried to destroy years ago,’ the kelda said. ‘She ha’ been beaten verra severely, but here she comes, to your steading, asking ye for sanctuary.’ There was a gleam in her eye as she said, ‘What now, Tiffan? It’s up to ye. Only ye can decide. This elf nearly killed ye afore, and yet ye want to help her . . .’ The kelda’s face looked grave. ‘Fairies are nae to be trusted, we Nac Mac Feegle ken that! But ye are the girl who made the Wintersmith mind his manners. Don’t fret for the Quin, but through her footsteps there may be a war . . .’

  Tiffany bent down to the shrunken, quivering elf. Face to face with her she quietly said, ‘Last time we met, Nightshade, I was a small girl, hardly capable of any magic whatsoever.’ She pushed her face closer. ‘How much better at magic am I now! I am the successor of Granny Weatherwax, aye, and you elves were right to fear her name. And now you might say that the life of elves is hanging on you. And if you let me down, I’ll send you back to the Feegles. They have no love for elves.’ The kelda caught her eye and Tiffany said, ‘Does that sit well with you, Kelda?’

  ‘Och, weel,’ said the kelda, ‘somebody had to taste the first snail.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tiffany. ‘And goblins were treated as nobodies until somebody gave a thought to them. Give the Lady Nightshade no reason to hate you, but if she breaks the rules then I promise you – and, ye ken well, a promise from the hag o’ the hills is a serious business indeed – that will be the end of it.’

  Feegle eyes were still watching Nightshade with unabashed loathing. It seemed to Tiffany that the air between them and the elf was humming with hatred, in both directions.